


Like When I Noticed Your Nobility

by thalialunacy



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Community: summerpornathon, Ficlet, M/M, Plot Twists, Reincarnation, Summer Pornathon 2013
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2013-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-20 18:35:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/890508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thalialunacy/pseuds/thalialunacy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Merlin dreams and Arthur comes back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like When I Noticed Your Nobility

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for summerpornathon's week 4 challenge... only, it doesn't have any porn and it was way over wordcount, so I wrote a different, unrelated thing for that. TA-DA.  
> Credits: Title and imagery from 'Starkville' by Amy Ray as performed by the Indigo Girls.

It starts with a dream about Arthur’s death. 

\---

Merlin's really old, now. Really, really, exceedingly, frustratingly old, in his opinion. Some days he looks it, some days he doesn't. Some days he tells the kids to get off his lawn; some nights he's egging houses.

Well, not really. But he did do, a couple times, before he realized that he might be living a thousand lives but he's still the same Merlin.

\---

It’s been this long and he’s never once dreamt about it. About Camlann, yes, about every other waking moment they had, but not that. Not the end.

So at this point, he's clever enough to take a hint.

And he gets ready.

He spends twenty years getting ready, really, but it’s a blink of an eye for him, now.

\---

And then he’s sure, sure like he hasn’t been for hundreds of years, that it’s now, that it’s _happening_ , that somewhere there is a twenty-two year old man trying to figure out why he feels incomplete, although he’s probably too stubborn to admit such a thing.

The thought makes Merlin smile, giddy like an idiot. But nothing comes.

Nothing except the dreams.

\---

He dreams of a faceless man, a man he thinks is Arthur but he’s not sure and that disturbs him, so much so that in his dreams, after spending a reckless night sweating against hotel sheets, he just— leaves. He dreams of the man over and over again, of fucking him into unfamiliar mattresses, of holding him so tightly he can’t tell where one ends and the other begins, of sweat and smells and laughter and kisses, but never—never once—of the mornings.

\---

He dreams of travelling, of gravel and caravans and sleepless nights behind the wheel, of tents and cabins and never being quite warm enough despite piles and piles of quilts. Just warm enough to sleep, but not enough to enjoy it. Which makes him feel, more keenly than anything else in his endless lifetime, that he’s been robbed.

\---

He dreams of telephone calls, of ancient landlines with rotary dials and sci-fi mobile phones that can do all but cook him dinner. He dreams of being on the road, of watching the sun break over the horizon, and hearing the birds singing—and picking up the phone, dialling a number, always the same number—then having nothing to say that the birds haven’t already said. So he hangs up, and he goes back to sleep.

\---

He dreams of dreams.

\---

What he does _not_ dream of, however, is a brunette with too much eyeliner coming round and banging on his door one dreary morning in April.

He flips the locks with a gesture and opens the door wide enough to squint at her unnecessarily, nearly forgetting he’s young these days, in these days of dreams.

"Listen,” the girl says immediately, like _he’s_ the one that’s annoying _her_. “Someone's been calling me from this number?" And she's chewing gum loudly and he thinks her hair's too teased but there's something—

He shakes his head. "From what number?"

"From this number—“ _You idiot_ is in her tone and something starts to clang in Merlin’s head. “You have a house phone, yeah?" 

"No, I actually don't. So I'm not sure what you could mean."

"I mean," she says impatiently, pushing her way inside the flat, and the clanging is getting very loud, indeed, "that you—I know it's you because your voice, it's very distinctive, innit?—you called me, three in the bleeding morning, and said something about birds. Didn’t know whether you meant, like, Tweety, or girls, although—“ And she looks him up and down and smirks a little. “I kinda doubt it’s girls.”

“Ex _cuse_ me? Who _are_ you?”

“I’m called Aurora,” she says, blowing her fringe out of her eyes, “and yes my mother was a hippie but she’s dead now so don’t tease.” She crosses her arms. “My point was that I don’t know what you were on about because all you’d say was that you couldn't do them justice, whatever that means, and then you’d hang up and I’m left thinking you’re a nutter who—But the point is that I need sleep. I need you to stop calling because I need sleep and I can’t seem to—can’t seem to—”

Then her jaw clenches and she runs a hand across the back of her neck and the clanging in Merlin’s head comes to an abrupt, crashing halt.

He'd— He'd never— For _years_ he'd been looking only at men.

What an _idiot_.

“You,” he says, stepping closer, not caring about his morning breath or her hideous eyeliner.

She eyes him warily but doesn’t shy away. “Me, what?”

“I...” And there’s really no way to just up and say it, so— “Here,” he says, holding out his hand as if to shake. She reaches up automatically to clasp his hand but he shakes his head, guiding her to clasp his wrist instead. Then, heart hammering in his chest, he says a few words, rusty from years of being pushed back into the closed spaces of his mind.

And images explode across the space between them. Familiar ones of Camelot, of red capes and muddy maille and the warmth of campfires—of Arthur’s smirks, Merlin’s grins, Arthur reaching up to Merlin as he died— 

And her eyes open wide, and Merlin smiles as the first rays of morning sun break through the clouds. “Hi,” he says, his voice rough.

“Hullo,” she says, her voice full of wonder. “Merlin.”

He brings their foreheads together, wraps his arms around her. He wants to laugh for days. "Sire,” he says instead, unable to stop smiling. “Welcome home."

**Author's Note:**

> and I should probably note: The gender-switching thing was straight-up stolen from Meg Cabot, because she is a goddess.


End file.
